Something's missing
by BreathSlowAndHeavy
Summary: He was tired of travelling alone. It was him and no one else, just as it had always been. There was always something missing and he knew it, even if he refused to admit it to himself.


((I know I've been gone along time, and some of you are waiting for stories to be finished. But my life went wrong for a while and I hit a very low time. I'm back now and trying to get back into writing. So please, enjoy, forgive me and be patient. Thank you. ))

_He was tired of travelling alone. It was him and no one else, just as it had always been. There was always something missing and he knew it, even if he refused to admit it to himself. _

Dean Winchester had been travelling the country for as long as he could remember, first with his father and his brother, but Sammy had taken off to school, he had abandoned them. So they carried on, touring the country, killing anything unnatural along the way. It had left him permanently scarred, he had memories that should only ever belong in nightmares, and nightmares that he lived to see through the day. Once he was old enough, he had taken his own right of way and left his Dad to travel separately.

"Twice the ground coverage, twice the many bastards we can send back to hell."

Those were the last words his father had ever said to him in person. Dean still remembered the tone he spoke to him in, there was never any emotion. Dean understood why, they run a daily risk of losing each other in battle, he knew his father kept any emotion out for their own protection, yet it hurt him. It had cut him deep without him realising it. So at the first chance he got, he flew and boy did he fly. He never stayed around for much longer than a day anywhere, he ate when he could and drank most nights. He felt like something was missing, like something had been taken from him. Dean knew it wasn't his father, although they would barely speak for weeks, or even months at a time he was still in his life, and it wasn't Sammy either. He knew where Sam was and he remembered him. No, this was something entirely different, something he couldn't remember but meant a lot to him.

Anybody who crossed the path of Dean Winchester attempted to work him out, figure out how he worked, what went on in his head, yet nobody ever knew. Not really. Occasionally he'd get a different kind of need, a primitive need that he could easily satisfy by simply talking to any girl he wanted and they'd follow him back to his motel with ease. He'd do what he needed and they'd stay a while. He was a hard nut, but he needed comfort, he craved human contact to remind him what it was he was fighting for, so he'd hold this stranger in his arms and feed her some bull crap story about someone else's life he pretended was his own. Then he'd simply fall asleep and they girl would be gone by morning. Yet everything about it felt empty, the touch, the fucking, and the talking. Everything felt wrong and empty, like he belonged to somebody else. Dean had never been love, he had never been loved as far as he could remember, and he'd never have it any other way.

On occasion he'd stop for a few more days in a town if there was a case that didn't want to crack. He'd pick up his fair amount of scars, all of which he treasured, a monument to his work, but he could never look himself in the mirror. He'd catch himself every so often after a shower, he'd see himself and feel nothing but disgust of the skin he lived in. He knew nobody could ever love him for that reason, he was broken and destroyed. Nobody wanted that.

This case happened to be one of those special occasions, he'd returned to a town he'd once spent a few months living in while he and Sammy were younger. John, their father, had gone off on a hunting trip and hadn't returned. They weren't meant to stay for long. Dean couldn't remember much of the place or the school he went to, but there was a case here, something that would keep him here for days on end trying to figure out what exactly was happening to people who lived there.

He'd seen an article in a newspaper back in diner, and he had a hunch that something wasn't right. People go missing all the time, people kill their other halves and go missing in an attempt to hide from what they've done. Yet 3 different people in the space of 2 months had burnt their spouses eyes out and ran, taking none of their clothing or anything with them. It wasn't like any demon he had ever encountered before, or any monster he had any knowledge of, but he knew. He just knew had to check it out. Something wasn't right and he had to fix it, he'd kill the bastard that was tearing lives apart and send it to hell, where it belonged.

Driving into town he saw familiar buildings and signs, yet none of it brought back memories. It was strange, he'd always remember something, no matter how tiny from every place they'd been, and if he had forgotten he'd sure as hell remember the minute he drove through that town. Yet nothing came to him now, nothing at all. Shrugging it off, he figured there was just nothing here for him to remember, so he carried on driving, admiring the houses and the families within them before resting his eyes upon a skivvy motel. It looked beaten down, on its last legs. He figured it just barely passed health regulations, so it was perfect for him; cheap and nothing more than a room to figure out what was happening around here. Pulling into a parking space, he turned the engine off before quickly shoving the keys in his pocket, a hand resting on the dashboard.

"You can rest now baby..." he murmured, there was nothing in this world he treasured more than his car. Chevrolet Impala, '67. He adored it and refused to let any hand other than his own fix it. He was sat still for too long, he was letting his mind start to think, it was resting and as he closed his eyes he saw everything he had ever done. Shaking himself back into the mask he wore he searched for his phone, deep within his leather pockets of his jacket and rand voicemail.

"Damn it." He growled, he hadn't heard from John for three months now. Climbing out of his car he grabbed his always-packed-back-pack, closed the car, locked it and made his way into the lobby.

It was in shambles, 30 year old paint was peeling from the walls, the windows where filled with grime and damp. None of this bothered him in the slightest, it just made it easier to tell of his line of lies. Meeting the receptionist he was not surprised to see an overly large man in a vest top, balding and in desperate need of a shower.

Reeling off his story about how he was some guy named Ted Nugent who needed a break from the wife and stopped at the first motel that he came across. Stolen credit card, fake I.D and a few minutes later he was unlocking the door to a room big enough to hold a bed, a cupboard sized bathroom, and a table. There were electrical plugs around the walls, and he'd learnt from an early age how to hack into the nearest internet connection. Researching was not going to a problem here.

Setting everything up took him all of five minutes. A routine he was used to: laptop in, internet hacked, suit on, fake F.B.I badge in the pocket and he was ready. Time to see the bodies and get an idea of what exactly it was that he was dealing with.


End file.
